White Lies
by The Quiller
Summary: Twenty-eight years ago, an unexplained explosion in Storybrooke, Maine left the survivors with equally unexplainable powers. Some chose to use them for good; others, for evil. Now, as a war between superhumans rages in the underbelly of society, Emma Swan - alias Savior - meets Killian Jones - alias Hook - and the line between good and evil begins to blur. (CS AU)
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter I: Swan Maiden_

. . .

Considering how often this hero business seemed to boil down to sheer dumb luck – being in the right place at the right time, or more importantly, not being in the wrong place at the wrong time – and the fact that bad luck seemed to be the only kind of luck she ever had, Emma Swan decided to take a moment to regret her life choices.

That moment was rudely interrupted when the wall above her head exploded in a shower of plaster and splinters as she threw herself flat against the ground to dodge a burst of semi-automatic gunfire. The bullets whizzing overhead sent a familiar chill running through her veins, which could only mean one thing - cold iron bullets. Where she could stop a copper or steel bullet dead in its tracks, cold iron cut through her magic barriers like tissue paper. The entire set-up had been a trap from the very beginning, but they had gone in anyways that because there was no other option; it wasn't like they could just leave all those people to die. She could only hope that her partner made it out with the hostages before these goons turned her into Swiss cheese.

' _Come on, Snow, what's taking so long?_ ' Emma wondered as she narrowly rolled out of the way of another burst of gunfire and lobbed a few fireballs over her shoulder in return. She couldn't keep this up for much longer.

As if on cue, she felt her phone buzz. Once…twice…three times – the signal for ' _hostages clear'_ , thank god.

It was _long past_ time to get the hell out of dodge. Emma didn't bother with a heroic parting quip or a taunting pose. Those kinds of theatrics would only get her killed like an amateur. She didn't bother to make a run for the obvious emergency exit down the hall either, because they would be expecting that.

The fastest exit route was through the giant glass windows that lined the walls of the abandoned skyscraper. Her enemies had already helpfully riddled the glass with bullet holes; it didn't put up any resistance before shattering as she threw herself through it. She vaguely heard shouts of shock and disbelief behind her, because how often do you see someone voluntarily choose to exit a building from a thirty-fifth story window?

' _Take that, Gold,_ ' Emma thought to herself as she fell, fighting back a vicious grin. They'd won this round, even with the deck stacked against them. She could only imagine how furious the criminal mastermind would be once he heard that they had slipped through his fingers yet again. Wrapping that happy thought around her like a cape, Emma reached for her magic and felt it flare underneath her skin. Gravity lost its grip on her as she pulled out of her swan dive into a corkscrew swerve. Now all she had to do was find a discreet alleyway to land in before meeting up —

Suddenly, pain. Searing, white hot pain speared through her shoulder and her waist. Her magic sputtered, then began to fail as the chill spread from her wounds; dimly, Emma realized she'd been shot. Worse, she'd been hit by the hollow-point rounds, and _the cold iron bullets were still inside her_.

Seriously? What were the chances that the one random grunt with a revolver had managed to hit her by firing blindly into the night?

She really had no luck at all.

The ground was coming up alarmingly fast, so she did the only thing she could. With the last flickers of her magic, Emma threw herself sideways, aiming vaguely for what looked like the top of an apartment building.

She missed. She was falling too fast, and she hadn't been able to propel herself quickly enough to reach the roof in time. Instead, she barely soared over the railing of a balcony of the next floor down and proceeded to smash straight through the glass balcony doors in a terrific shower of glass. She bounced over the carpet of a bedroom floor, knocked over several unidentified pieces of furniture, and finally rolled to a stop after skidding across the tile of a kitchen.

Ow. _Ow._ Everything was pain. Emma let out a strangled moan as she tried her best to stay conscious.

The dark apartment suddenly flooded with yellow light that left her dazed and blinded. Someone had flipped a light switch.

"... _Bloody hell_." Wait. That wasn't her voice. It was male, and apparently, British. She heard the tentative crunching of slippers on glass, and then the distinct metallic click of the safety going back on a gun followed by the sound of someone setting that gun down on a countertop. Oh. Good. Getting shot even more was the last thing she needed right now, even if the owner of the apartment was probably justified in shooting the random masked vigilante who had crashed landed on his balcony.

' _I broke his windows. And ruined his carpet,'_ was her first disjointed thought, because her mind refused to process the fact that she was probably going to die on some stranger's kitchen floor.

"Lass? If you're still alive, stay calm, stay awake, and try not to move, alright?"

Huh, for someone who had probably woken up to the sound of shattering glass and crashing furniture, his voice was surprisingly calm. Maybe he was a cop? Or an emergency room surgeon? At any rate, he had a rather pleasant voice - a nice, soft tenor with a delicious accent.

And if she was thinking these kinds of thoughts, then she had probably already lost too much blood. She tried to look up at the bleary figure who was now crouching over her, but her eyes refused to focus properly.

The pleasant voice kept talking, "I'm going to call an ambulance."

" _No_ ," Emma gasped, adrenaline surging through her and giving her a boost of strength. Her words came out in a strangled wheeze, "No ambulance." Gold would be watching all of the hospitals. And if he found her now, in her disabled state...well, she'd be better off dying in a stranger's kitchen. She could only hope that she sounded desperate enough to convey that an ambulance was a Bad Idea, capital letters and all. To emphasize her point, she thrashed feebly, her fingers digging weakly into the hem of what appeared to be flannel pajama pants to stop him from walking towards the phone.

A warm, rough hand pressed down on her uninjured shoulder, steadying her. "Understood. No ambulance, lass. I'll fetch my first aid kit, so calm down love. It's alright. You'll be alright. You're not in any… _shape_... _to…n…it…_ "

The last of his words petered out as Emma slipped into unconsciousness.

. . .

The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the piercingly bright light that stabbed straight through her eyelids and into the back of her skull. She groaned, and then tried to roll over and bury her face into her pillow, but her entire left side burst into agony as soon as she shifted position.

The flood of pain washed away the bleariness of sleep, and Emma nearly bolted upright as the memories of the previous night came rushing back. The bullet wounds in her shoulder and her waist immediately protested, and patches of black swam across her vision, so Emma quickly settled back down on the bed with a hiss of pain. That's right, she had been shot. Worse, she had crash landed in a stranger's apartment. Panic rose like bile in her throat as she cracked open an eye to take stock of her surroundings. Unfamiliar bed. Unfamiliar room. Her wounds had been bandaged by someone who clearly knew what they were doing. Her costume had been replaced by a man's cotton t-shirt and sweatpants. When her hand instinctively flew to her face and met nothing but her own skin, her heart nearly stopped dead in her chest.

Her mask was gone. Whoever had patched her up had also seen her face, and for all she knew, Gold could be closing in on her right now. She needed to get out of here hours ago.

She instinctively reached for her magic, and to her surprise, her magic responded. It felt a bit sluggish and slow, like it had just woken up, but the fact that she could tap into it again meant that her unknown savior had managed to get the cold iron bullets out of her without the aid of a hospital. She shuddered to think of the state she'd be in if he had left the bullets in. Drawing on what little power she could, she mentally channeled them towards the wounds to make them heal faster and steeled herself through the stinging pain as her flesh knit itself back together.

As soon as she could move around without the danger of passing out, Emma sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her knees nearly buckled under her as she tried to put weight on her own two feet, and only an ungainly grab for the nightstand kept her from sprawling all over the floor. The lamp on the nightstand wobbled and tipped onto the ground with a harsh thud, but thankfully remained in one piece. Taking a deep breath, Emma carefully shifted her other hand to brace against the wall and began limping her way towards the door. She was weak from blood loss and cold iron, but it didn't lessen her determination to get the hell out before Gold could find her.

"Some might consider it rude, love, to spend a night in a man's bed and sneak off in the morning before he can even ask your name," came a vaguely familiar voice, and Emma's eyes snapped to the exit she had been making her way towards.

There was a man leaning one hand casually against the doorframe. Tall. Dark-haired. Scruffy. And the owner of the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen. His hair was still sticking up in the back and his eyes were still half-lidded with sleep; the loose t-shirt and flannel pants only confirmed that he had probably just rolled out of bed to check on the racket she had been making.

"Especially not when my neighbors came knocking and I had to explain that our midnight romp got a little out of hand," he added, scratching awkwardly at the back of his ear. "I may have invented a few lurid details in hopes of embarrassing them out of any further inquiries."

Emma opened her mouth, and then, after a few moments, closed it again with a click of her teeth when no words came out. How, exactly, was she supposed to respond to that? How did she even get herself into this situation, where the stranger who had probably saved her life then confessed that he told his neighbors stories embarrassing lies in order to protect her privacy?

"I'll fix your windows," she finally blurted out. Then mentally groaned and slapped herself for the non sequitur.

"No, no need," he replied, waving a hand dismissively. "After all you've done for this city, it'd be bad form to make you pay for something as paltry as a broken window, _Savior._ "

The sound of her moniker falling from his lips sent her straight back into panic mode. She had been hoping that her costume had been too messed up to be recognizable, or that he simply didn't pay any attention to the news, or something, anything, to keep him from realizing who she was. It had been a long shot, but she had hoped all the same, because now that he _did_ recognize her, it left her with only one choice.

"You saved my life," she said slowly, dropping her gaze to the ground. "Thank you."

He let out a short laugh and said, "Well, I was hardly going to let such a beautiful woman die on my kitchen floor. Though perhaps gratitude _is_ in order now." She heard him take a step towards her, and all the warning bells in her head went off as her gaze snapped back up to his face. She was suddenly all too aware of her proximity to the bed, to him, and the fact that she was currently wearing his clothes.

He must have seen her bristle, because he stopped in his tracks and help up his hands disarmingly.

"Take it easy, lass. All I want is your name," he said, though his lips gained a more lascivious tilt as he added, "For now, at least."

Emma bit her lip. It was, in a way, worse than what she thought he was going to ask her for. Even if he had already seen her unmasked – and probably unclothed, by medical necessity, but she was determined not to think about that – telling him her name was a sign of trust. Trust that she couldn't afford to give. She already knew what she had to do.

And even though granting his request wouldn't matter one way or another afterwards, her name still felt like a lie as it left her lips.

"Emma Swan," she said hollowly.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Swan, albeit under rather unpleasant circumstances," he said, his accent curling around her name with a soft lilt. He made a small mimicry of a gentleman's bow and reciprocated, "Killian Jones, at your service."

Killian. It suited him, somehow, but knowing his name only made her feel worse about what she was about to do to him.

"Do you still have my costume?" she asked. The sooner she knew, the sooner she could get it over with.

He raised an eyebrow at her second non sequitur in as many minutes, but he still answered amicably, "It was in rather rough shape, but I left it soaking in the sink. Don't know how much it'll help with getting the blood out though – you may want to rethink wearing all that white."

Emma closed her eyes and nodded. That was all she needed to know.

"Thank you, again. And I'm sorry," she said.

A quizzical look crossed his face, but before he could even ask what she was sorry for, Emma nailed him smack dab in the middle of his chest with a sleeping spell. Immediately, his blue eyes slid shut and he toppled like a house of cards, asleep before he even hit the ground. Emma caught him with a cushioning spell before he could slam his head into the carpet, and then gently levitated him into his own bed.

"I'm really, really sorry about this," she whispered sadly, brushing a few wayward strands of dark hair out of his eyes and placing her palm gently over his forehead. "But you can't remember this, for your own safety as well as mine."

The memory spell glowed under her hands, and she siphoned away all of his memories of the previous night and the morning after. His brain would compensate for the missing time with vague memories of a one night stand to corroborate the story he had told his neighbors. He'd wake up a little confused and disoriented by the small discrepancies, but people had a way of explaining away little things like that. He'd be no worse for the wear, and more importantly, he'd be safe from all the chaos and destruction that followed her around like a curse.

It still didn't make her feel like any less of a bitch.

Wincing, she limped out of the bedroom and into the living room, which despite Killian's obvious attempts to clean up, was still a bit of a mess. There were bits of shattered glass strewn over the carpet, and smears of blood along the balcony railing that he hadn't gotten around to wiping away. Her costume, as promised, was floating in the sink while a bottle of some kind of bleach sat on the counter next to it. Her cellphone was sitting on the kitchen counter next to a small handgun.

Emma took in the whole room with a sweep of her eyes before following her gaze with a sweep of her hand. Magic flared to life, and immediately, the room started to right itself. All of the shattered pieces of glass picked themselves out of the carpet and the garbage bin to reassemble into a single pane of unbroken glass, which then fitted itself back into the metal balcony doorframe. The traces of blood wiped themselves out of existence. The overturned turned furniture righted itself. Her costume floated out of the sink and wrung itself dry before floating over to her and draping itself over her arm, while her cellphone tucked itself snugly in the pocket of her sweatpants. Emma gave the room one last cursory look to make sure nothing was looked too out of place before lowering her hand.

It was exhausting. She had always been better at breaking things rather than fixing them. She sat down on Killian's couch to rest for a moment, and then realized she was sitting on top of a rumpled throw blanket – this must have been where he spent the night, since she had been occupying his bed. There were still a lot of oddities about Killian Jones – such as his relatively composed reaction to a costumed vigilante crashing through his balcony, knowing how to surgically remove bullets, and also having the supplies on hand to do so – but he was a good man, and she would be dead if he hadn't been.

It only made the guilt twist even more uncomfortably in her chest.

But bearing the guilt was better than taking the risk. She had learned her lesson with Graham. The last thing she needed was a repeat performance with Killian.

With that resolve firmly in mind, Emma Swan got to her feet and straightened. Her body ached and groaned even at the simple motions of stripping off the clothes Killian had lent her and putting her torn-up costume back on. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and all she wanted to do was to crawl back into her own bed and sleep for another week.

But she still folded up his clothes and left them in a neat pile on top of the throw blanket and gave one last regretful look over her shoulder at the bedroom door before she disappeared in a puff of faint silver smoke, leaving no trace that Emma Swan had ever set foot there.

. . .

 _The swan became a maiden fair of snow white skin and golden hair  
She shed a cloak of feathers white and bathed in pools of silver light  
But she was seen by mortal man, who fell in love as mortals can  
He hid her cloak and gave her his, he took her home in wedded bliss  
But he saw longing in her eyes for rising winds and distant skies  
He kissed her once more tenderly, took her hand and set her free  
Return her cloak and watched her fly, away, away, without goodbye_

. . .

 _Author's Note_ _:_

 _This is was originally a one-shot. Actually, it was originally just a scribble in the margins of my class notes, but one thing led to another, and this trainwreck got out of hand pretty quickly. Now it's a multi-chaptered fic with terrible cover art._

 _...I regret nothing._

 _Please review and let me know what you think!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter II: The Hound of Ulster_

. . .

Killian Jones woke up with a splitting headache, a parched throat, and the taste of salt on his lips. His mind still whirled with fading echoes of what felt like a long, long nightmare, but the details slipped away like sand when he tried to grasp them. It took a few moments of silently staring at the ceiling before he recognized it as his own ceiling, and his waking brain finally caught up with him.

He rubbed at his face tiredly before rolling over, half-expecting to find a blonde angel slumbering next to him, but the other half of the bed was empty. Had been empty for a while, he realized with a frown, as he ran his hand over the cold sheets. His heart fell, strangely disappointed that he never even got a chance to ask for her name.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time. Probably wouldn't even be the last. No point in getting sentimental, no matter how stunningly beautiful the woman may had been.

He groaned and sat up, kneading his pounding temples, only to pause and look down at himself in confusion. He was...fully dressed. Which was not typically the condition he found himself in the morning after.

Shrugging the oddity off for later contemplation when he wasn't nursing the mother of all headaches, Killian rolled out of bed and trudged his way over to his bathroom. His body went through the motions of his morning routine on autopilot, and while the splash of cool water scrubbed away the grime on his face, he couldn't shake the strange hollowness left behind. He felt light-hearted and light-headed, an empty kind of happiness, as if someone had scraped out his sorrow and left only a shell behind.

Even as he finished cleaning up and stepped out into his living room, everything felt strangely off. It all looked familiar – the brown suede couches, the dark mahogany floors, the tall bookshelves lining his walls, the bright sunlight streaming in through the open balcony – but had the coffee table always been so far to the right? Had the living room rug always been so close to wall?

And his books had been rearranged - shelved randomly where he usually had them sorted by topic and author. He must have been a lot drunker than he thought.

As Killian pulled a heavy, leather-bound tome from the shelf, however, a soothing sense of familiarity settled over him. The book was a solid weight cushioned in his hand; it felt real in a way that the rest of him didn't, with the familiar feel of ridged leather under his fingertips and the camphorous fragrance of old rosin that clung to the yellowed pages. One by one, he returned each of the books to their proper shelves, pausing once or twice to stare quizzically at some of the more whimsical titles he ran across.

There were family trees tracing royal lineages back to a hypothetical king of Camelot, an entire series of books discussing real-life counterparts to fairytales and legends, compendiums of various mythical places and objects that might have root in historical fact – he wasn't sure what had possessed him to collect so many books on such eclectic topics, nor did he remember reading them, but when he gave in to curiosity and cracked one open, he found himself staring at pages upon pages full of highlighting, bookmarks, and notes scrawled in the margins. The books were so meticulously documented that he almost believed that the notes had been written by someone else entirely.

Except, they were all in his own cursive script.

There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he couldn't remember writing any of it. He just couldn't think of what that reason might be.

Shaking his head to clear it of the headache that was mounting in intensity, he turned instead to his more reasonable books. There was a thick tome of Christian treatises written in Latin that he had to finish translating into English before next Monday – it took him only a moment to locate it in his now properly organized shelves. He could finish skimming it while he brewed himself a cup of coffee.

Or, that would have been the plan, if a manila envelope hadn't dislodged itself from the book as soon as Killian pulled it off the shelf.

Something deep inside screamed at him not to open it, with an intensity that made his headache pound even harder. Killian ignored both his gut feeling and the headache and picked up the envelope, frowning deeply as he undid the twine keeping it shut.

Inside was a profile. Albert Spencer, prominent corporate lawyer – Killian recognized the face instantly from how frequently it appeared in high profile court cases on the news. As Killian kept browsing through the profile, however, it quickly became obvious that something was very, very wrong.

The pages listed all of Spencer's close associates. His personal habits. His private daily routine. There was a blue print of the entire Spencer & King law firm, and another blue print of what looked like a spacious penthouse, covered in scribbles that looked very much like entry and exit routes. And all of the notes were in Killian's handwriting – more things that he couldn't remember writing.

It looked disturbingly like a planned assassination. One that was supposed to take place last night, when he clearly had memories that told him he had been doing something very different. So the plans jotted down on these papers made exactly no sense at all, because Killian Jones had no business whatsoever with a high profile corporate lawyer like Albert Spencer.

Yet, that utterly failed to explain why there was something that might as well be a step-by-step instruction manual for murdering the man written in his own handwriting.

Killian clamped down on the rising panic with an iron composure he didn't even know he had. With the incriminating papers still clenched tightly in one hand, he walked back to the bedroom, unplugged his smartphone from its charger, and pulled up a news app.

' _NYPD RESOLVES HOSTAGE SITUATION WITHOUT CASUALTY_ ' was the first headline he saw. Something about that felt off, but he didn't bother to scrutinize the feeling any more closely before scrolling past the article.

' _SENATOR MILLS TAKES FIRM STANCE AGAINST SUPERHUMAN REGISTRATION'_ was another. He kept scrolling.

Then - ' _DISTRICT ATTORNEY MURDERED IN HIS OWN HOME'_. _Albert Spencer, aged 65, died of multiple gunshot wounds in his own home at approximately 11:30 yesterday evening. The assailant is still at large -_

Killian had to sit himself down on the bed as a sudden wave of nausea overtook him. For a moment, he just stared down at the screen of his phone, trying to convince himself that it was just a coincidence, but there was a sickening certainty growing in his heart that he had, in fact, murdered this man. That it hadn't been the first time he had bloodied his hands. That it wouldn't be the last.

Feeling numb, Killian exited out of the news app. It looked like his phone still had more answers to give, however, because he had an unread text. From himself. He tapped the text message icon with a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like what he found.

It had been sent two hours ago, by an automated service. All it contained was a single sound file.

He tapped the playback button and a voice began to speak. It was a voice that sent chills down his spine, because he recognized his own lilting accent and enunciation. It was profoundly disturbing to hear the undertone of cold, calculated ruthlessness in his own voice.

The words were spoken softly, in a mixture of French and Gaelic, _"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate. If this is not the correct phrase, my memory has been wiped in the last twelve hours. I need to drink the blue bottle behind the birch forest painting_."

Killian glanced up at the said painting, hanging above the headboard of the bed. His blood had already run cold by this point; nothing else could surprise him. What kind of life had he lived, where a failsafe for losing memories was something he sent himself every twelve hours? He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

But the same certainty that told him he had blood on his hands also told him that, unless he followed through with his own instructions, the consequences would be far, far worse. Steeling himself, Killian lifted the painting away from the wall, and sure enough, a small blue bottle was taped to the bottom-right corner.

He uncorked it and swallowed contents in a single gulp before he could have any second thoughts. For a second, nothing happened to him except for a fit of uncontrollable coughing, because whatever was inside tasted absolutely foul – a mixture of intense bitterness, rust, and salt.

Then the memories sucked all of the air out of his lungs.

Liam. _Milah_. Uncontrollable grief that had boiled down to cold resolve honed on the edge of a knife. Years upon years of murder and betrayal. Chasing after the smallest of leads, the faintest of clues. Always searching. Always failing.

Baelfire.

Pan.

 _Crocodile_.

The sound of shattering glass snapped him out his blind wrath. He had inadvertently crushed the small blue bottle into tiny shards that cut deeply into the flesh of his palm. Already, fine droplets of blood were welling up and rolling across the ridges of his knuckles, threatening to fall onto his carpet.

Killian Jones calmly unrolled his fist and pressed the back of his hand against his knee, catching the droplets of blood before they fell, then methodically began removing the broken pieces of glass from his injured hand. The stinging pain helped anchor him as the decades of memories settled back into their proper places. The old memories faded into the background, dulling the edge of his rage, while the more recent memories floated closer to the surface, and Killian finally pieced together all of the events that had led up to the most recent debacle.

He remembered waiting for all the police in the area to respond to the hostage situation before breaking into Spencer's penthouse. Remembered slashing his hook across the throats of both security guards before they could raise the alarm. Remembered emptying an entire magazine of bullets into Spencer's body before setting off the alarms on purpose to announce to Gold that the job had been completed.

Remembered dodging through deserted alleys and zip-lining across rooftops until he safely rappelled down to his own balcony without his neighbors being any wiser.

And then, just after he finished changing into innocuous pajamas and stashing all of his incriminating equipment behind the false wall of his closet, he heard a cacophony of breaking glass from his living room as someone crash landed through his balcony doors.

Emma Swan. _Savior_.

He had nearly shot her on sight, thinking that she had tracked him down, until he had noticed that somebody had already put a few bullets in her. Which suggested her choice of landing pad was less than intentional, and more of a darkly ironic coincidence.

It left him in the awkward position of either saving her life, or dealing with a dead body in his living room that he had no inconspicuous means to dispose of. He had chosen to do the former – partly out of pragmatism and partly out of a misplaced sense of guilt. He had, after all, used the hostage situation that she had probably been involved in to his own advantage. Besides, letting a helpless woman bleed out on his kitchen floor was hardly the gentlemanly thing to do. So he had cut the cold iron bullets out of her, stitched her up, and given her a blood transfusion. Her own innate magic had taken care of the rest.

And she had woken up charmingly disoriented, up until the moment where she thanked him by wiping his memories, which had been markedly less amusing. Killian scowled. It was the last time he would let his soft-heartedness get the better of him. Granted, she probably thought he had been some well-meaning civilian who'd be better off remaining ignorant of her true identity, and she couldn't have predicted what her memory spell would do to someone with so many _more_ memories than any living human ought to have, but alas, the road to hell was paved with good intentions, and he felt perfectly justified in his resentment.

However, he couldn't help but grant her a tiny smidgeon of admiration as well, because erasing a helpless civilian's memories fell into a morally grey area that most heroes shied away from. Clearly, Emma Swan had significantly less qualms about doing what needed to be done. It was not something he would have expected from someone foolish enough to fight for 'the greater good', and he had underestimated her quite badly. As a result, she had bested him, and he could count the number of people who had done that on one hand.

So, a hero who easily ranked in the top ten known superhumans in terms of sheer magic ability, who would be willing to bend her moral code when the situation called for it…he could use someone like that. Especially when he held all the cards now – he knew her secret identity, which gave him _leverage_.

Slowly, a plan began to come together in his mind. With her help, he could finally set the gears into motion without alerting the damn crocodile to his movements.

Removing the last sliver of glass from his palm, he picked up his phone again to record a new recognition phrase. He would need it, if he planned on continuing his liaisons with the lovely lady Swan.

" _Nemo me impune lacessit,_ " Killian murmured softly into the receiver. " _If this is not the correct phrase..."_

. . .

Mary Margaret and David had grounded her for an entire week after the scare she had given them after the hostage incident. It was at times like these that Emma wondered if they actually _had_ been her parents in another life, because David had done the whole worried father routine and refused to assign her any perps to chase down during the day, and Mary Margaret had pretty much put her foot down and told Emma to go to her room. Or, rather, to her apartment, and then to do nothing but recuperate and sleep until her injuries had completely healed.

So in keeping with their assumed family roles, Emma decided to play the rebellious teenage daughter to the fullest, which led to zipping up in costume and stepping out into the night against her friends' express wishes. Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes. As if they really believed she would just sit by and let Snow get into god only knows what kind of trouble without back up.

She wasn't quite up to 100 percent again – she was still incredibly sore, and got a bit light-headed when she over-exerted herself – but she had regained enough magic to poof herself up to the top of a skyscraper and watch, invisible, as Snow patrolled the alleyways below for any superhuman shenanigans.

So she nearly jumped out of her skin when, thirty-minutes into her vigil, a low chuckle sounded behind her and someone alarmingly close to her asked, "Enjoying the view, love?"

She whirled around with a fireball already crackling to life in her hands, but all she saw was a blur of black leather before a gloved hand closed around her wrist and a cold metal hook pressed itself under her chin.

"A little quick to resort to fire, aren't you? Not even going to bother saying hello?"

Emma answered by driving a vicious elbow into the man's solar plexus. He hastily twisted out of the way, but in doing so, lost his grip on her wrist and pulled his hook away from her throat. Emma finally managed to face him properly, with both hands wreathed in threatening flames.

"Give me one good reason not to flambé you, _Hook_ ," she snarled, spitting out his name as if it physically pained her to say it.

Standing across from her and silhouetted by the bright lights behind him, was a man dressed in what looked like black and silver biker suit with a ridiculously dramatic leather coat worn over the entire ensemble. This was the first time she had seen him in person, but she knew him by reputation, and the curved metal appendage at the end of his left arm left very little doubt as to his identity. His lips curled into a cocky smirk and he held up both hand and hook held up disarmingly in a pose of mock surrender, a perfect picture of arrogance and unnecessary theatrics.

"Just wanted to see the hero who earned such an impressive moniker with my own eyes, Savior. And may I say, you are a _vision_ in white, love," Hook drawled, running his tongue obscenely across his bottom lip.

Emma threw the fireballs.

To her annoyance, he neatly sidestepped one and smoothly ducked under the other without so much as a singed hair, as if he had been expecting them the whole time. Which, given his apparently suicidal determination to be as gross and flirty as he could, might actually be the case.

"There's no need for that," he forestalled, as Emma summoned more fire to her hands. He looked slightly apologetic as he confessed, "I came to talk."

Emma scoffed, "then you can do it from the inside of a cell, for however many years they sentence you to for murder."

"Because Albert Spencer will be dearly missed," Hook replied, and she could almost hear the laughter in his voice as he affected an expression of exaggerated sorrow and said, "How will those poor corporations continue exploiting their minimum wage workforce without their valiant defender against the law?"

"That's not why you killed him. Someone hired you," Emma snaps, hurling another handful of fire at him, which he dodged. What he didn't expect, though, was that instead of throwing her other handful of fire at him, she blindsided him with a roundhouse kick. She felt a savage satisfaction as his eyes widened behind his mask, and he barely threw up his arms in time to brace against the magically strengthened kick that sent him flying across the rooftop.

He recovered admirably, however, with a roll that shed his momentum and put him back on his feet.

"Ah, well," he said, shaking out the arm that had taken the brunt of the impact, "I'm not quite foolish enough to admit to that, no matter how lovely the woman doing the asking is. Besides, I didn't come here to talk about a dead man. I came here to make you a proposition."

"Not interested," Emma deadpanned.

"Oh, I think you will be," Hook said, his voice falling to a seductive growl as his posture shifted in a way that told her bantering time was officially over, and it was time to get serious.

She tightened her hands into fists and raised her guard, bending her knees slightly to lower her center of gravity and give her the ability to leap away if needed. She didn't know what kind of tricks Hook might pull, or what kind of powers he might have, but his whimsical flirting had nearly made her forget that the man in front of her was a _killer_.

Hook stalked closer, making no motion to attack, but Emma felt her hackles rising all the same as he closed the distance between them.

He stopped just out of striking range.

"You see, Swan, I've been planning something for a long time, and I need your help to make it happen."

Her heart missed a beat. What had he just called her?

He seemed to read her panic despite how well she kept up her poker face. He made a show of buffing his hook against the lapel of his jacket before continuing, "Yes, _Swan_ , I know who you are underneath that mask. And ah, ah, ah – " he forestalled her attack by holding up a hand, " – unless you decide to cooperate, it'll be all over the news tomorrow morning, no matter what happens to me here."

Fuming, Emma lowered her fists. She forced the words out through clenched teeth, "What do you want, _Hook_?"

He stepped in even closer, well within her range to strike him down if he wasn't holding her anonymity and with it, the safety of everyone she loved over her head as a threat. Part of her wanted take the risk – that he was bluffing – and throttle him here and now. The larger part of her that still operated rationally stayed her hand.

He was close enough that she see the pale pinkness of his lips and the whiteness of his teeth amidst his infuriatingly perfect scruff. He formed his words slowly, with care placed on every accented syllable.

"The same thing you want," he murmured, popping the 't'. As if afraid that someone would overhear them, even though there was no one else in sight, he leaned in, close enough for her to _feel_ the warmth of his face – and dammit, this was totally an inappropriate time to blush, but she was doing it anyway – and he whispered into her ear, "To destroy Gold."

Wait, _what?_

She pulled away from him in bewilderment as she asked, "You _work_ for him. You've been doing his dirty work for _years_!"

"Aye. All the more reason to want him dead," he chuckled darkly.

She hesitated, searching his words and his face for any hint of a lie. She found none.

Her mouth felt dry, and swallowing didn't help dispel the knot in her throat. With a sinking feeling that she was selling her soul to the devil in a deal she didn't fully understand, Emma Swan slowly opened her mouth and asked, "Okay. What do you need me to do?"

His smile turned downright vicious, and he told her.

. . .

 _Hear ye now this sad refrain, the lay of Cuchulain  
A brave youth came before the king and swore to him in fealty  
Fought his battles, won his wars, slew his foes, and bore his scars  
But the more valiant Cuchulain proved, the more the fair queen's heart was moved  
And so the jealous king ordained the death of Cuchulain  
A hundred battles, a hundred tests, until an arrow pierced his breast  
With dying breaths he asked the king, for one last drink from soothing spring  
Three times he asked, three times denied, until, in vain, Cuchulain died_

. . .

 _Author's note:_

 _In case anyone's wondering, the chapter titles correspond to the poems at the bottom, and all of the reference some myth or fairytale that are at least tangentially related to the chapter in question. And yes, the poems are written by yours truly, as a short summation of what happens in said story._

 _I realize that I'm also in dire need of a beta reader, given how many errors I found in Chapter I after I posted it. Anyone willing to help me out? Please? Pretty please? With a cherry on top?!_

 _Ahem._

 _Anyway, please keep reviewing and let me know if you like how the story is developing. I crave reviews like an addict craves crack._


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter III: East of the Sun_

. . .

"Hook knows who I am," Emma blurted out as Mary Margaret handed her a plate of waffles.

The plate tilted dangerously for a second, but Mary Margaret righted the plate before the waffles could slide off the edge and managed to set the plate down on the kitchen counter with remarkable poise.

"Oh," Mary Margaret said. Her eyes widened a little and she pressed her lips together for a moment before she calmly asked, "Do we need to go into hiding?"

Emma let out a small sigh of relief. She had spent an entire sleepless night agonizing over whether or not she should to tell her best friend before realizing that she couldn't, in good conscience, hide such a huge problem from Mary Margaret without jeopardizing everyone's safety. Just letting the words come out felt like a huge weight had been lifted from her chest.

"No, at least, I don't think so," Emma said. She reached for the whipped cream added a generous dollop on top of her waffles before grabbing the cinnamon shaker and liberally peppering the entire plate. If her night job as a super heroine was good for anything, it was burning off the extra calories so she could treat herself without guilt. Picking up the entire waffle, Emma bit into the warm dough and spared herself a moment to savor the first bite before answering around a mouthful of waffle, "He wants me to do something for him."

A dangerous glint flashed through her friend's eyes as she asked, "He's _blackmailing_ you?"

"More like using it as insurance," Emma answered. "He wants to bring down Gold, and apparently, step one is to screw with one of Gold's operations. They're apparently kidnapping a Mr. Allen Prentiss tonight, and Hook wants me to crash the party and make sure Mr. Prentiss makes it into protective custody."

"Emma, this sounds like a set-up," Mary Margaret said slowly, "He's a villain, and you know they don't play by the same rules—a set up nearly got you _killed_ just a week ago."

"I know. That's why I need your help, and David's, to get counter insurance. Do you remember Killian Jones?"

"The owner of the apartment you crash landed in?" Mary Margaret asked, frowning.

Emma swallowed another bit of waffle before dropping the bombshell. "I think he's Hook."

Mary Margaret choked on her orange juice.

"It's just a hunch," Emma quickly amended, "but I tell Jones my name, and then Hook blackmails me with it few days later? That can't be a coincidence. They even have the same height and general build." And the same way of saying _'Swan_ ', with the way their mouth moved, wrapping around the word before curling into a smile, and the distinctive, almost gentle lilt of their accent—the way that Killian Jones said her name and the way Hook repeated it had echoed maddeningly in her brain until the connection finally _clicked_. But her friend didn't need to know that particular detail, so Emma had no intention of elaborating.

Reaching for a napkin, Mary Margaret coughed into it until she had cleared her throat before asking, "I thought you wiped his memory?" There was a faint frown to her lips, still mildly disapproving of altering civilian memories, just on principle.

"Who knows—his super power could be magic resistance. Or, I don't know, some kind of self-regeneration. It would explain why Jones has two hands, while Hook has just one," Emma said with a shrug. She had run across stranger abilities. Hell, her own powers were a mishmash of so many different things that didn't seem to follow any hard and fast rule beyond 'it's magic'.

Mary Margaret sighed, "Alright. I'll swing by Granny's and see if she has any information on Jones. And David's got a few contacts that can look into the census records for you."

Emma gave her friend's hand a quick squeeze. "Thanks, MM. You're really saving my butt here."

"Well, what else is new?" Mary Margaret hummed with a small glimmer of mischief in her eye. "You'd better hurry up—I'm not making excuses for you if you turn up late."

Emma glanced at the clock and let out a soft curse, scarfing down the last of her waffle before fishing her red leather jacket off the back of her chair and bolting for the door, waving over her shoulder at the amused Mary Margaret watching her go.

. . .

"You know, staring at the pages isn't going to make them tell you anything new," David's voice floated over to her from the other side of her desk.

Emma looked up to see her boss—albeit in name only—standing with two cups of black coffee, one of them extended towards her. Feeling a bit sheepish for not noticing him standing there, she set the papers and accepted the steaming beverage with a grumble, "Who's fault is it that I've got nothing better to do?"

"Now is that any way to thank someone who got you all the files you needed so quickly?" David asked, smiling openly over the brim of his own cup of coffee.

Emma just rolled her eyes and refused to dignify him with a verbal response. Instead, she picked up the discarded papers and went through them for the umpteenth time. She had been hoping that Killian Jones's file would corroborate her hunch that he was the man behind the mask.

At first glance, he seemed to be nothing more than a rather reclusive intellectual. Killian Jones was a citizen of the United Kingdom. He was thirty-two years old, had previously served in the Royal Navy, received an honorable discharge in order to complete his education, and graduated from the University of London with a double masters in linguistics and history. He now worked as a full-time literary translator for the American Library Association.

It all seemed innocuous enough on paper, but Emma Swan had seen enough to spot the red flags all over the place. He lived alone, for one. He was also an immigrant, which implied a lack of well-acquainted social contacts. Most damningly, he worked from home with a solitary job that had no fixed hours and very little face-to-face interaction. There was no one to keep tabs on where he was or what he was doing.

In other words, it was a perfect cover for someone who was living a double life. She would know—she lived one, after all—and Emma Swan knew her own profile probably didn't look all that different from his. Heroes, villains, it didn't matter. They were stretched too thin between two different worlds, never fully living in either, like ghosts that could only watch but never touch the people around them. She had been a ghost of a person, once, bouncing from foster home to foster home, then from job to job, surrounded by a blur of faces and names that meant nothing to her.

She would never forget what those days had been like, and seeing Killian Jones's profile was like an unexpected needle through the heart.

The spaces where family was meant to be filled in were all blank. No parents. No siblings. No significant other. His emergency contact was the same as his employer's contact information. It looked painfully familiar to how her own profile must have looked just a few years ago, at the lowest point of her life.

And she couldn't help but recall the hollowness in Hook's laugh, the vehemence with which he said Gold's name, in the wake of a page filled with empty blanks where the names of friends and family should have gone. It was a chilling look at what she might have become, had David and Mary Margaret not been there to pull her back from the edge. What would it have been like, to live with nothing except hatred as a reason to keep living?

There was still a glimmer of humanity left in the villain Hook; despite his laundry list of crimes, he had drawn a proverbial line in the sand at some things that he simply would not do. An honor code and a sense of fair play, so to speak, albeit one twisted beyond all recognition.

And she had seen kindness in Killian Jones. Because someone with no heart wouldn't give up their own bed to a wounded stranger and spend a night on the couch after single-handedly administering first-aid just based on a mumbled plea to avoid hospitals.

But if he _was_ Hook, then it was only a matter of time before that last glimmer of kindness and humanity was smothered under all the weight of his sins, and there was no one to pull him out of that darkness.

So it was almost with relief that Emma found a flaw in her theory, a reason to believe that Killian Jones was really just a helpful civilian, and that she was only projecting her own tragedies onto him.

His birth certification listed his place of birth as Westminster, but he hadn't applied for a passport until the age of twenty-one. It meant that he didn't have the legal documentation to leave the United Kingdom prior to his twenty-first birthday, and somehow, Emma couldn't quite imagine four-year old Killian Jones being smuggled out of the United Kingdom to Storybrooke, Maine, surviving explosion that wiped the town off the map, and then being smuggled back into the United Kingdom without anyone being the wiser.

If Killian hadn't been present for the Storybrooke Incident, then he shouldn't have any superhuman abilities. Hook had gone toe to toe with some of the most dangerous superhumans around, something well beyond the capabilities of a powerless civilian.

Basic logic thus dictated that Killian Jones could not be Hook, but Emma's gut feeling wasn't so easily convinced. It left her in a strange sort of limbo regarding what she should feel about the man, without definitive proof either way.

Emma sighed and took a large gulp of her coffee.

David was right. Staring at the file wasn't going to give her any additional insight into Killian Jones. Emma blew on the hot coffee a little more before throwing it back in one long, continuous draft. It scalded her tongue and her throat as it went down, but it did its job of chasing away the afternoon drowsiness.

"Heading out then?" David asked, looking up from his own work.

"Yep. I'm going to scope out the area of the operation before I meet up with Mary Margaret, just in case," Emma said, pushing her chair back as she stood. "Since you've clearly got no use for me here anyway."

David said, "You know that if you need any kind of back up—"

"—just call and you'll come riding to the rescue," Emma finished for him with a grin. "I know. And we will. But don't worry too much—we can handle ourselves."

. . .

Hook had provided a detailed plan about how to extract Mr. Prentiss safely from the kidnapping operation. Emma had to give the man props—from her own stint on the wrong side of the law, she had gained the ability to judge how thorough a plan was, and Hook's was solid, minimizing risk and maximizing contingencies. Instead of trying to prevent the kidnapping altogether, they would hit the transport van instead and get Mr. Prentiss out before the kidnappers even knew what hit them. It was practical and professional, and she would have admired the experience and foresight behind Hook's planning if he didn't, you know, use his skills for evil.

It was almost too bad they weren't going to be using his plan. But Emma wasn't stupid enough to go into a hot situation relying entirely on a plan that a villain, no matter how charming he may be, had all but spoon fed to her.

Hook probably hadn't counted on David being able to find Mr. Allen Prentiss with just a name and a photograph. Instead of lying in wait at a stoplight along the transport route, Emma Swan nonchalantly sitting on roof of Mr. Prentiss's house, cloaked in a simple notice-me-not enchantment. Snow was hidden somewhere nearby—probably in one of the towering trees that lined the roadsides—keeping a literal eagle eye on the roads. They should spot the villains coming from a mile away.

Which, if Hook had been honest with her, should be around now.

Emma had already discreetly stretched and limbered up, her hands itching for a good fight. She scanned the roads again, straining her eyes against the dimming sunlight for any suspicious vehicles ambling up the street.

She had been squinting so far into the distance that the puff of purple smoke on the porch step caught her embarrassingly off-guard.

And when the smoke cleared, Emma suddenly realized why Hook had recommended attacking the transport instead of trying to stop the kidnapping altogether, because the person sent to subdue Allen Prentiss was one of Gold's top enforcers: the Queen of Hearts, Cora Mills. Her face was hidden behind a masquerade mask, but there was no mistaking the ostentatious royal blue dress or the sudden taste of powerful magic in the air.

Cora placed one hand against the door and frowned as it crackled under her fingers, exhibiting some kind of resistance. Something glowed under her fingers, and the door exploded into splinters.

Emma chose that exact moment to strike, leaping down from the roof like a bolt of lightning and bringing both her fists down in a motion that summoned a blinding pillar of fire where Cora stood. The white flames roared for a moment, but then a vivid purple flame ate them up from inside out, devouring the magical fire until it dissipated into thin air, leaving Cora standing there looking annoyed, but otherwise unsinged.

"Why isn't it ever that easy?" Emma muttered before she heard the sound of ringing metal behind her.

She barely had time to throw herself to one side before a wickedly sharp blade whistled through the space her head had occupied just a second before. She didn't have time to recover her balance before a blur of black leather bowled her over, knocking her through the untrimmed bushes next to the porch in a confusing whirl of arms and legs.

"Bloody hell, I thought the plan was for you to _wait_ ," an all too familiar voice hissed, and suddenly, Emma knew exactly who had blindsided her.

"Sorry," she said, not sorry at all, "but the only orders I follow are _mine_." As she said the last word, she summoned up her magic and channeled all of her strength into her legs, the soles of her feet connecting solidly with the man's torso and sending him flying away from her for the second time in as many days.

He managed to right himself somehow in midair, however, and landed in a crouch even as he skidded backwards, digging his hook into the grass to shed momentum. He had managed to keep a hold of his blade too, dammit. The metal was jet black and honed to a razor edge – cold iron, she could feel it in her bones. She really, really didn't want to get slashed by that.

And he looked angry. The mask hid most of his expression, but from the deep scowl on his lips, it was almost as if he was personally offended that she hadn't trusted him.

She wouldn't put it past him to exact some kind of petty revenge.

So ranged attacks it was, then. She didn't want to be in striking distance of that blade. If Emma had learned anything from their last encounter though, it was that Hook reacted far too quickly to be hit by her normal fireballs. So instead, Emma summoned fire to both hands, as if she was preparing to use the same tactic as she did last time, but instead of hurling the separately, Emma smashed her left fist against her right palm, slamming the fire in both hands together to create a scatter shot that exploded toward the black-clad villain.

But instead of dodging, Hook crossed his forearms and threw himself recklessly forward, right through the rain of fire. Emma's eyes widened—shit, she wanted to incapacitate him, not _kill_ him —but the fire that chewed right through his leather coat seemed to fizzle out when it touched his skin. He still made a grunt of pain, so he clearly wasn't immune to flame, but it didn't slow him down at all as he closed the distance between them before Emma could unleash another spell.

The dangerous blade sped towards her throat again, and unable to block cold iron with a magic barrier, Emma was forced to resort to hand-to-hand. She simultaneously ducked and levered her arm under Hook's elbow, throwing the blade off course so that it whistled harmlessly over her head again, but the metal hook in the man's other hand managed to crack her solidly against the jaw, sending her sprawling.

"Good form," Hook growled, "but not good enough."

He raised the sword to run her through, but a white feathered arrow whizzed through the air and forced him to leap backwards, away from Emma.

 _Snow, thank god_. Emma spared a look over her shoulder and saw Cora occupied by a whole flock of birds descending upon, pecking and clawing in a cacophony of bird calls. She couldn't pinpoint exactly where her friend was, but there was a rustle in the treetops and another arrow sped straight towards Hook.

The man sliced the arrow out of the air with an inhumanly fast flicker of his blade.

"I would have preferred to do this the easy way, love. But with Cora watching, I'm afraid you've left me no choice," he said, sounding almost apologetic as he leveled the blade at Emma again. Keyword being almost. There was still an undercurrent of anger in his voice that left her wondering if he'd really run her through just to fool Cora.

She was still sprawled on the ground as he closed the distance. _'Combat teleport, now would be a great time to work!'_ Emma thought to herself as she willed herself away with all her might.

Hook's blade cut through empty silver smoke as Emma reappeared behind. A small voice in the back of her head made and exultant _'yes!'_ but the majority of her mind bent itself to the task of tackling Hook around the waist, knocking both of them into the flowerbeds in an undignified heap. Luckily, she ended up on top, and she drove her knee into the small of his back as she made a wild grab for the blade and managed to wrench it out of his hands with surprising ease. She rolled off of him and onto her feet before he could stand.

"What was that about good form?" Emma asked, pressing the tip of the blade against his Adam's apple. Hook immediately froze as the sharp metal drew a bead of bright red blood.

Then the crown of a nearby tree burst into flames, and Emma's eyes involuntarily darted over with concern for Snow—between Hook and Cora, Cora was far more dangerous. The Queen of Hearts hadn't moved from where she stood on the porch, but she was surrounded by the broken bodies of dozens of small birds.

Emma saw a cloaked form fall from the burning tree and land heavily onto the ground.

"Snow!" Emma shouted, inadvertently drawing Cora's attention and letting the tip of the blade lighten its pressure again Hook's neck.

Three things happened at once.

Cora's hands flared up with deadly purple flames.

Hook rolled out from under his own blade and rose to his feet.

And a deep, hoarse voice roared, " ** _ENOUGH_** " as every single fire in the vicinity guttered out like a candle in a sudden gust.

Standing behind Cora in his own wrecked entryway was a man Emma could only assume was Allen Prentiss. He was old—his bushy beard was completely white and the top of his head was balding—but he stood straight and tall with a wand whose tip was glowing bright raised aloft in his hand. He turned his eyes on Cora and with a single sweep of his wand sent the powerful sorceress flying like a ragdoll. Cora slammed into the thick trunk of a towering oak tree with a loud crack and collapsed in a heap at the base, clearly unconscious.

Then Allen Prentiss turned the wand on them, calmly walking towards them with the surety of a man who had power and knew how to wield it. This was most definitely not the helpless old man Emma had been led to believe she was rescuing.

"Now," Prentiss demanded calmly, the tip of his wand still glowing with the threat of magical mayhem, "one of you will explain _what you kids were doing on my lawn._ "

. . .

 _Each time they meet in darkness, he hides his face away  
_ _"You must not look upon me, love, until the promised day"  
_ _But the maiden grows impatient and at last she strikes a light  
_ _Her lover's face is handsome, but marred by grief and fright  
_ _"If only you had waited," he says in mournful tone  
_ _And fading into the ether, he leaves her all alone_

. . .

 _Author's Note:_

 _This is the revised version of the chapter, beta'd by none other than the multi-talented **SpartanGuard** herself. A round of applause for her, please, for turning this mess of typos and missing words into a coherent chapter._

 _Most of chapter 4 is done. Hopefully, I'll be able to raise my update speed to twice a week, but no promises._


End file.
